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ROBERT BRIDGES
845 Winter Nightfall
THE day begins to droop, Its course is done But nothing tells the place Of the betting sun.
The ha/y darkness deepens,
And up the lane You may hear, but cannot bee,
The homing wain.
An engine pantb and hums In the farm hard by
Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering bky.
The soaking branches drip, And all night through
The dropping will not cease In the avenue.
��A tall man there in the house
Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again
Breathe the spring air:
His heart is worn with work;
He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far
As the nearest rick:
�� �
